


Measure a Life

by truethingsproved



Series: Talk revolution to me, baby. [17]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (cat's an asshole), Gen, ahahaha it's about time i did this, cat likes watching people suffer, cat's having a great time, cosette vs everything, everybody's having a rough day except for cat, grantaire vs cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4140900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truethingsproved/pseuds/truethingsproved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Her name was Fantine,” Papa has confirmed, “and she loved you so much, Cosette, you need to know that.”</p><p>But if Fantine had loved Cosette all that much, wouldn’t she have kept Cosette with her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Measure a Life

Her name was Fantine.

That’s almost all Cosette really knows about her mother. She knows this because of the single photo of her mother that she has: a laughing, bright-eyed woman with a mess of blonde curls cradling a dark-haired baby—Cosette—to her chest. She’s got a rosary in one hand, she’s wearing what Cosette thinks might have been her Sunday best, and she’s got Cosette’s eyes, Cosette’s face. For a while, when her hair was blonde, too, it was like looking in a mirror.

 _Fantine and Cosette, Easter Sunday, 1995,_ is written on the back of the photograph in a sloping hand, in blue pen. It might not even be her mother’s handwriting, but Cosette has traced the letters over and over and over so many times that they’ve almost faded.

“Her name was Fantine,” Papa has confirmed, “and she loved you so much, Cosette, you need to know that.”

But if Fantine had loved Cosette all that much, wouldn’t she have kept Cosette with her?

\------

He pulls his hair back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his life flashing before his eyes. It’s a dangerous task, maybe too dangerous to undertake alone, but it simply must be done. There’s no two ways around it.

He’s left detailed instructions for Cosette in case he doesn’t make it ( _Weep not for me, my darling_ ) and he’s instructed Courfeyrac not to come home, or let the others come in, until his duty is done. He’s lived a good life, he supposes—sure, he’s never seen Lana Del Rey live, he’s never seen the Grand Canyon, he still hasn’t watched that movie James Deen was in with Lindsay Lohan and taken a shot every time something was terribly overacted, but otherwise, it’s been pretty solid, overall.

Inky fingers flutter at the hem of a stained tank top, marked with sweat and paint and smoke, before he pulls that off; he’s going to be mauled anyway, and there’s really no point in pretending otherwise. A tank top isn’t going to act as armor. No point in destroying all of his clothes simply to fuel some illusion that he’s safe.

A loud yowl from the bathroom jerks Grantaire out of his reverie; it’s somehow both plaintive and threatening at the same time, and Grantaire is terrified, because no one cat should have all that power. On his bed, Cat, purring happily at the prospect of seeing Grantaire go to war, opens one eye and looks at him with evident amusement that really shouldn’t be possible from a cat. “You’re a sick bastard,” Grantaire informs his cat sullenly; Cat only responds by twisting around to groom himself. “Look at you. Licking your own ass. You’re in no position to judge. At least _I_ get someone else to lick my ass for me.”

Maybe having more game than your cat isn’t something to celebrate, necessarily, but Grantaire is a simple man, with simple needs, and he appreciates a simple victory.

The tank top falls from his hand, and he swallows, hard, before he opens the door.

\------

Grantaire isn’t there when Cosette shows up at the Corinthe, the pub down the road from Musain where the friends tend to gather to eat and complain and occasionally to study. Which, really, is bullshit, because that’s the only reason Cosette got out of bed today: to punch Grantaire in the arm and then force him to marathon Grey’s Anatomy with her until she cried and convinced herself it was because of Meredith Grey.

“Where’s R?” she demands, a bit sullenly, definitely combatively, as soon as she reaches Enjolras. Thin hands perch on thin hips, and she raises her eyebrows as if to challenge Enjolras to a fight.

For his part, Enjolras is a bit taken aback. “He’s… home?”

Oh. “Oh.” She should have thought of that. “I should have thought of that. Sorry.” Gingerly, she sinks down into the seat across from him, almost as if she’s expecting him to shoo her away, but Enjolras simply closes his textbooks and turns his attention to her.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Stuff.”

“Things?”

“Yeah.”

That’s one of the best things about Enjolras—he doesn’t pry. Courfeyrac has been known to jab people in the sides repeatedly while singing _peer pressure, peer pressure, peer pressure_ until you cave, and Combeferre tends to be nice and make sympathetic faces until you start crying on him, but Enjolras sort of just carries on with his day until you tell him on your own. So he simply holds out one of his fries for Cosette to take, which she does, gratefully, and waits for her to speak again.

“Why is R at home?”

Evidently, this is the _most_ amusing question that Cosette could have asked, because Enjolras looks at her for a long moment before he starts _giggling,_ his shoulders shaking and his laughter turning into an outright wheeze. It’s only fair that Cosette takes this opportunity to steal forward to take another fry while she stares accusingly at him, and he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Because,” Enjolras explains finally, once his laughter has died, “Grantaire adopted another _cat._ ”

\------

It had been an accident, okay? Grantaire wants to make sure that whatever entity is watching this gets that part right. (God. An author. Who knows.) He hadn’t _meant_ to adopt the tiny little thing, but he had, and what kind of person turns out a poor, helpless, defenseless kitten into the relatively mild weather of early-autumn in a town full of bleeding-heart animal-lovers? What kind of sick fuck _does_ that? Not Grantaire. He was given a responsibility, and he rose to the occasion, and that’s just the right thing to do. He belongs on the cover of Time, as the year’s most influential person. Made a few good mix CDs, avoided watching a movie solely because his favorite porn star is in it, adopted a needy kitten.

Of course, now he’s reconsidering that, since the thing won’t stop _screaming_ at him every time he tries to bring it close to water. He’s filled the sink with water and cat shampoo, and the kitten, a tiny little thing with fur that might have been white once upon a midnight dreary and a body so tiny he could literally fit her into a tea cup, started screeching, and refused to get out of the bathtub. So he filled the bathtub up an inch or two with warm water and cat shampoo and now the kitten, with all that filthy fur plastered to her, has attached herself to Grantaire’s jeans and is glaring angrily at him, yowling furiously.

For such a tiny cat, she’s got terrifying claws. “Please,” Grantaire all but whimpers, “please just let me get you clean. I’m doing this because I love you.”

(From outside the bathroom, he hears Cat sneeze, and it sounds almost like some sort of sick feline laugh, and all Grantaire can do is wail.)

He reaches down gingerly to unhook the kitten from where she’s attached herself, and she lets him, watching him reproachfully. So far, so good—baby steps, he can do baby steps, that’s reasonable. But it’s the next part that’s going to be the most difficult: approaching the water.

He steps forward, once, twice, the kitten starting to relax, but then she looks down, and after all these years, Grantaire finally knows how Enjolras feels every time Cat so much as approaches him.

\------

It shouldn’t be seen as a sign of weakness that when Enjolras suggests that Cosette eat something, since she’s there already, that she relents, sitting back down across from him. Almost as soon as she does, she’s approached by a waitress—bright and friendly and sweet—and only once she’s ordered does Enjolras return his attention to her. His textbooks are forgotten, and Cosette feels the weight of that gesture settling against her chest. Not much ranks above Enjolras’ work, but his friends do, and she can’t help but love that.

“I like your hair,” is all he says, and that’s all it takes, and suddenly Cosette is tearing up, sniffling at him from the other side of the booth and covering her face with both hands while a very alarmed Enjolras tries and fails to find comfort her before he settles for reaching forward and awkwardly tapping her on the shoulder, murmuring _there, there._

Of all the things for Cosette to cry over, this really isn’t one of them. Still, she supposes that at least she’s crying, because crying is good for you, sort of, sometimes, whatever. Her hands are shaking when she reaches into her pocket to pull the photograph out, and she practically flings it across the table—Enjolras catches it before it can land on his veggie burger, and examines it curiously, his brow furrowed for a moment before he lets out a soft _oh_ of understanding.

“Your mother?”

Cosette nods, and Enjolras flips the photograph over, reading the words on the back, lips moving as he does.

“She’s beautiful.” Somehow, this makes Cosette’s heart swell with pride, and Enjolras continues, turning the photograph over again. “You look just like her—except the hair. I really do like your hair now. It looked good blonde, but this suits you best, I think. But she really is absolutely beautiful. And she’s looking at you like you’re the sun. I’ve never seen a mother look at a child like that; I mean, I always imagined that’s how mothers are supposed to look at their children, but I’ve never actually seen it.”

It’s almost like Enjolras has reached past Cosette’s ribs to squeeze the air out of her lungs himself, and she coughs, shaking her head, and Enjolras watches her for a moment before he reaches out to grasp one of her hands tightly in his.

“She _gave me up._ How much could she have loved me if she just gave me up?”

He shrugs one shoulder, brushing his thumb over her palm. “Sometimes that’s the most loving thing you can do for the people who mean the most to you,” he says quietly, and that just makes her start to cry again.

Without hesitation, Enjolras releases her hand and stands, moving around to her side of the booth and sliding in next to her. Some of the other customers in the pub turn to look at them, but they ignore them as Enjolras collects Cosette and gathers her against his chest, her face buried in his shoulder, one of his hands curled around the back of her skull, fingers tangling in her hair, his other hand curled around one of her ankles as she pulls her legs up and across his lap. Both of her hands come up to clutch at his shirt almost desperately, and he just pulls her closer to him while she cries as quietly as she can.

\------

There’s blood on the floor and also on the walls and Grantaire is in the bathtub now, because evidently, the only way that the kitten is going to get clean is if Grantaire joins in bath time. It’s how he imagines trying to bathe a toddler would go—except that toddlers generally don’t have such sharp claws.

Now that she’s in the water again, and with someone else, she’s having fun, batting at the surface of the water and jumping back when it ripples out under her paw, splashing back and forth while Grantaire, legs tucked underneath him and elbows resting on his knees, covers his face with his hands and wonders why he ever thought fatherhood was for him.

The kitten splashes again, fascinated by the bubbles, and she _chirps,_ turning to face Grantaire and climbing into his lap. “ _Now_ we’re friends?” he mutters, lifting his head from his hands and scratching lightly behind the kitten’s ears. She starts to purr—but she’s so tiny that the purr rattles her entire body, and he covers her with his whole hand, palm curved across her back while she leans her head on his wrist and closes her eyes.

“You know, this isn’t how bath time goes.”

No answer.

“You need to get _clean,_ little destroyer of worlds, that’s the whole _point._ Otherwise, I’ll need to give you another bath, and I think we’ve established that this shouldn’t be a regular occurrence.”

The kitten only responds by sliding off his lap and falling back into the water with another chirp, batting her paw against the surface of the water rapidly and seeming thrilled by the splashes that she causes, and Grantaire can only cover his face with his hands again.

He’s never getting out of this bathtub alive.

\------

The first thing Cosette sees when she arrives at Grantaire’s apartment is blood. The second thing is Grantaire sitting stock-still in a kitchen chair while a new kitten sleeps in his hair.

“Cosette!” he stage-whispers. “My love. Come here. Say hello. But do it slowly, and quietly, and don’t make any sudden movements, because the princess there is very sensitive.”

“There’s blood on your floor.”

“Yes, well, she and I had a bit of a battle.”

Cosette laughs, shaking her head and approaching slowly. She reaches out to touch the kitten, causing Grantaire to suck in an alarmed breath and hold it, and though the kitten wakes, blinking up at Cosette blearily, she doesn’t attack—instead, she nuzzles Cosette’s hand until Cosette picks her up, already cooing with adoration.

“Have you named her yet?” she asks, lifting the kitten closer so she can kiss her fur—now almost completely white, with  splotches of black near her eye and on her belly.

“No, not yet. I was thinking _Beelzebub,_ maybe.”

“Dietrich,” Cosette insists. “After Marlene. Oh, R, she’s perfect. I’m in love. I’m so in love.” She moves to sit on the floor, the kitten still in her hands, before nuzzling her. “Would you like that? Being named _Dietrich?_ ” The kitten chirps, and for some reason, Grantaire shoots her a dirty look, but Cosette only coos again. “Dietrich it is. Oh, you little love, you perfect little love.”

After a moment, Grantaire offers them both a begrudging smile, though the smile fades once he gets a good look at Cosette. He shifts off the chair, sliding down to the floor to sit across from her, and reaches forward to brush her hair gently behind her ear. “You’ve been crying.” It’s an observation more than anything, but there’s clear worry. “What’s wrong?”

Cosette pauses, as if she’s not sure how to answer. And, truthfully, she’s not. Lunch with Enjolras had been unexpected, but helpful—but it still leaves her confused. She hasn’t the faintest idea of what to do, or where to go from here, only that she _has_ to move forward if she wants to learn anything at all.

She pauses, reaching back into her pocket and moving slowly so as to keep from disturbing Dietrich. Once she’s pulled the photograph out from her pocket and Grantaire has taken it, she clears her throat, taking in a deep, shuddering breath.

Grantaire looks over the photograph, and once he realizes who the subject is, he leans forward to press his lips to her forehead. “What do you want to do?”

And that’s one of the things she loves most about Grantaire—he may be unreliable when it comes to things like deadlines, or keeping his apartment clean, or practicing moderation regarding his music, but he’s reliable when it comes to his friends. If Cosette needs him, he’ll be there—and if Cosette asks him to do something potentially foolish, he’ll be there. It’s simply how he is. It’s how he’s always been.

She pauses, looking up when she hears the apartment door opening. She catches sight of Enjolras standing there, watching her with a small smile, and offering a nod. She knows exactly what she needs to do.

“How would you feel about taking a road trip?”

Immediately, Grantaire nods. “Sure. Where to?”

A pause, a deep breath—and then Cosette steels herself again to speak.

“New York.”

**Author's Note:**

> here's a fun story for you all:
> 
> so last week, i managed to get a cold, in the middle of summer, because i wasn't sleeping enough and everything was stressing me out. and on monday night my computer was being hella slow, so i shut it down and called it a night and went to bed early after i took some medicine, except the medicine was messing with my sleep schedule and i got maybe three hours of sleep. i'm exhausted, i'm pissed off, and it's seven in the morning and i've been tossing and turning all night, so i figure, i might as well be productive.
> 
> i get up. open my computer.
> 
> almost all of my files, save two text files and four image files, are corrupted. i'd been hit with a ransomware virus. so naturally i contemplated throwing my laptop out a window in a rage, and figured, well, what the hell, let's kick some virus ass. cut to three hours later, and hours of work is gone, but the virus is toast. but i was going through my computer to delete the corrupted files, and lo and behold, trtmb hadn't been touched! which i'm taking as divine intervention a la victor hugo, who must approve of what i'm doing with his babies.
> 
> anyway, hi, i hope everyone's doing well, and i hope you're all ready for fantine's super sad backstory. 
> 
> find me at susanspevensie @ tumblr and truthingsproved @ twitter!
> 
> (yes, the title is a rent reference. and the next couple of titles will be rent references. because i'm trash, that's why.)


End file.
